


Johnlock Trope Challenge

by shirleyholmes



Series: Tumblr Mini-fics [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Army, Bars and Pubs, Bets & Wagers, Drabble Collection, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, First Time, Goodbyes, Handcuffs, M/M, Military John, Post-His Last Vow, Romance, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Soulmates, Teenagers, Teenlock, Tropes, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belated upload of my JLTC fics-- Each chapter is its own drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet/Dare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NerdyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/gifts).



> Dedicating this series to nerdymind for creating this bit of awesomeness to begin with.
> 
> Originally published on consultingdragoness.tumblr.com, under the tag 'jltropechallenge'. You can also, as many of you have figured out, find me at damesansmerci on AO3, though, fair warning, that corner's rather dark and highly experimental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the chapter order, since the Bet/Dare is ALSO Army John and Teen Sherlock and would, chronologically, come before Train Station Goodbye. They're all technically stand-alones but a first meeting and a goodbye did seem to fit.

He didn’t know who had told his friends back home about the rumors. Must have been Bill, really, but the entire thing was just shit anyways. ‘Three-continents-Watson’ they called him and all right, yes, there had been that nurse in Afghanistan. And yes, fine, he’d had a bit of a reputation back home. And there had been that trip to America, when he was a good bit younger—

It still wasn’t on, though. Here he was, trying to relax for a night at the local pub…and his own mates were treating him like some sort of pimp. 

Well, it was mostly Greg, but neither Molly nor Mike had protested all too much so far.

“Sarah,” Greg said with relish. “She’s been eyeing you all evening. Chat her up then, show us those skills we keep hearing about.” 

“He won’t do it,” Molly said. She nervously pushed her drink aside. “It’s silly, why chat someone up if you don’t mean anything by it?

“Course he will,” Greg said. “It’s only a bit of fun. Just seeing if that thing about all the girls loving a soldier, is true.” He winked at John. “Is it Johnny?”

“I don’t think that’s the quote,” John muttered. His good-nature had survived for the first bout of teasing, but after it had continued for the better part of an hour… He tilted the rest of his pint into his mouth and looked morosely at the now-empty glass. He missed his rough cot and the excitement and—

God, look at him. Home for two weeks and he was already pining for war, of all the damned things. There was something wrong with him, for sure.

“Aw, leave him alone,” Mike Stamford said. “You got nothing better to do, Greg?” John smiled at him gratefully. 

“Hey now,” Greg said, holding up his hands. “I don’t mean anything by it, you know that. I just hear you’re quite—good—at what you do. Thought I might pick up some pointers, see if it’s all just talk—“

“He IS,” Molly said. They all turned to stare at her and she blushed, a dull, mottled red spreading across her fair skin. “I mean—not that I know—Oh, I didn’t mean—I just bet you are, is all,” she said. “And if you want to talk to Sarah, you—you go right ahead, just don’t let this one—“ she paused to glare at Greg. “Don’t let him—“

“It’s all right Molly,” John said. Her effusiveness was as suffocating as it was heart-warming—Christ, there he went again. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this? Enjoy having all his friends about him, for once, enjoy his leave—

“She’s not interested anyways,” a voice said behind him. Deep, raspy even. John tilted his head up to see a tall brunette in an absurdly tight t-shirt staring icily down at him.

“Hello, soldier,” he said slowly, as if savoring the taste of the words on his tongue. “Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“How’d you..?” John gaped blankly up at the stranger. He whirled on Greg. “Did you tell him?” 

“Nah,” Greg said. He tilted his glass at the boy, who was still just standing there, how awkward could he be—

“That’s Sherlock, he’s really good at that sort of thing. Knowing, I mean,” Molly piped up. ‘Sherlock’—of all the poncy names, really— pivoted like he was mired in taffy, his gaze drifting to her, and the blush that had barely faded from her cheeks rose up again almost immediately.

“I mean—“ she started. “He just knows—“

“It was the tan, of course,” Sherlock said. He dropped his gaze pointedly to John’s wrist. “You can see by his bearing he’s in the military. Tanned hands, but his uniform covers the wrist, so where in the military does one get such a tan these days?” He nodded at John. “Afghanistan… or Iraq?”

“Fucking brilliant!” John said. He turned back to his table. “Did you all see that?”

“All the bloody time, mate,” Greg said. “Meet Sherlock Holmes, boy genius.“ He looked at Sherlock and smiled. “Never seen him speechless before, so there’s a new one.”

Sure enough, Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I—- did you mean that?” he asked John.

It occurred to John that genius or not, Sherlock was far younger than he’d initially assumed. His aloofness, and height and those awful clothes—torn jeans, worn old tee, had made John think… But now he looked a bit softer, shy, awkward, almost, and John noticed that his clothes hung off of him like they didn’t quite fit.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling gently. “Yeah, of course I did. It was amazing.” Sherlock locked eyes with him and John saw that he was blushing, just faintly, and it was, quite frankly, one of the most endearing things John had ever seen.

“John Watson,” he said, holding out a hand. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed in Afghanistan.” Sherlock took it.

“John,” he said, inclining his head ever so slightly.

“Take a seat,” Mike interrupted. He gestured at the place between him and John.

“I was just leaving,” Sherlock said, instantly dropping John’s hand. Molly’s face fell, a little, and John was seized suddenly by the urge to make this queer creature stay—for her sake, of course, anyone could see she’d taken a fancy to him—

“No, come on, it’s barely 9 pm and you’ve got to be on holiday,” John said. “You’re what—still in secondary? Just graduated?”

“Third year university, thank you,” Sherlock said, his lips pursuing.

“Sorry, you just look about 16—“ John was, he registered dimly, perhaps a bit more pissed than he’d thought. And Sherlock was looking positively thunderous—bit not good there.

“Um, I’ll buy you a drink,” he offered. Behind him, he heard Greg snort.

“I can buy my own drink,” Sherlock said. He looked positively affronted, now.

“—and then you can join us. Brilliant.” John beamed at him and Sherlock gazed back at him, clearly bemused.

“I was—that is to say—-“

“Going to buy a drink?” John suggested. “Oh come on then, it’ll only be a bit. And they all know you, but I’ve hardly gotten to talk to you, so that’s not fair, is it? You’re something, you know?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’ll—perhaps I shall. Let me just—“ He gestured towards a dark-haired girl texting busily in the corner. Flashy little thing, John thought. Wearing some red scrap of cloth—-

Sherlock headed towards her and John turned back to the table…. Only to find all three of his friends grinning at him in a highly suspicious sort of way.

“What?” he demanded, reaching for the remainder of Mike’s ale. 

“Guess he does have some talent,” Greg said, nudging Molly. “I feel bad for doubting you there, Johnny.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about ,” John said. 

“I’ve never seen Sherlock like that,” Molly said. “I just… he’s so shy, you know?”

“Shy?” Greg snorted. “Foppish sort of git, if you ask me. Thinks he’s too good for the likes of us, that’s all it is. His brother was in my year and they’re exactly the same—“

“He’s not,” John said. Three pairs of eyes were on him again and he realized his mistake. “I meant—from all I’ve seen of him—-“

“I think that was your mistake, Greg,” Mike said, in that infuriatingly placid way he had. “You picked the wrong team.” He stole his glass back from John and winked.

“Oh, no you don’t think Sherlock…?” Molly said. “He’s—-“

“Well, god knows what Sherlock Holmes is,” Greg said. “Hell, he’s probably attracted to his lab specimens more than anything actually breathing. But John. I think Mike’s got you there.”

“No—what?” John said. “No, I’m not gay, you all are mad—“

“Sherlock,” Greg said, slamming his pint on the table. “That’s the deal.”

“What deal?” John demanded. “We never made a deal, Greg, you can’t just—“

“Well, we’re making one now,” Greg said. “I’m wagering… that you can’t take Sherlock Holmes back home with you tonight.”

“GREG,” Molly said. “You can’t just—“

“Fine, fine—I’m wagering you can’t—Just kiss him then, for all I care. But it’ll have to be public.” 

“Now hang on, just a minute,” John said. “I’m not—I’m not gay, is what—“

“Shouldn’t matter,” Greg said. “This is about your skills, Johnny. Can you or can’t you?”

“Of course I can, that doesn’t mean I should—-“

“I’ll buy you a pint,” Greg offered. “No, hang on…” He drew out his wallet and counted out a few notes. “15 quid,” he said triumphantly. “There.”

Mike nudged John. “Careful boys, he’s coming back,” he said in an undertone.

“I’m not—-“

“John, come on,” Greg coaxed. “Can’t be that hard for you, can it? And just a bit of fun, anyone can see you’re bored—“

“Oh—fine.” It was probably the drink talking, but John didn’t care. Greg was surprisingly perceptive, sometimes, and yes, he was bored. Utterly—bored. 

“Dammit. Fine, I’ll do it, Greg, just don’t you—-“

“What’s he done now?” Sherlock asked. He slid into the seat next to John and peered coolly at Greg. “You’ve made John uncomfortable. Why?”

“Never you mind,” John said quickly. “Here, about that drink—“

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. “Really.”

“May I kiss you, then?” John said. Better get this over with quick, the inevitable rejection ought to make Greg calm down a bit and—

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. “Are you making fun of me?” he said. He rose from his chair. “I should have known—“

“I’m not!” John said. “It’s just—I’d like to. Kiss you.” It was true, he realized. Sherlock was… good-looking, really, in his anemic sort of way. And his lips were remarkably plush in his narrow face and—

Sherlock glanced about the table, his eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said. He crossed his arms across his chest. “Fine then,” he spat. “Go on. Kiss the freak, let’s play this game.”

“Oh, no, Sherlock—don’t be like that,” Molly started. She glared at Greg. “It wasn’t meant—“

“It was you,” Sherlock said, his strange eyes alighting accusingly on Greg. “Some sort of game then, definitely. And you picked the most absurd person you could, just so John—“

“It’s not a game—Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm and turned him so that they were looking each other in the eyes. “I would—would you?”

“Fine,” Sherlock bit off. John raised an eyebrow in surprise and Sherlock snorted. “Yes, I rather thought you wouldn’t—“

“Fine,” John interrupted.

“I—.“ Sherlock looked strangely vulnerable for a second. “You don’t—“

“I said it’s fine.” John leaned in and Sherlock pulled away a bit.

“I should warn you,” he began. “I’ve never really—“

“Shush,” John said. His eyes fell to Sherlock’s lips and he ran a tongue over his own. “It’s all fine. Do you—“

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He sat back down and nearly fell forwards, mashing their lips together.

It was awkward in the worst possible way—and then, John ran a hand up his neck, tilted his head slowly to the side so that their lips slotted into place. Sherlock made a small mew of astonishment, his mouth falling open, and John slipped his tongue into the inviting space. His hand traced Sherlock’s pale neck, the jut of his cheek, before finally sliding to the back of his head and curling into his long, curly hair, pretty as any girl’s.

Sherlock’s hands slid up his chest and locked around his neck, his breathe hot and wet, his kisses clumsy, and John found himself gripping the boy tightly by the waist and drawing him closer, so that their legs tangled under the table…

He was dimly aware that someone was coughing behind him.

“Easy there boys,” Greg said. John broke away and Sherlock chased his lips for a second, eyes still closed. They flickered slowly open, the translucent blue dazed.

“Well, then—“ He tried to draw away and John tightened his grip, before looking about the table. Molly’s mouth was wide open and Greg looked a bit uncomfortable. Mike was… grinning smugly to himself, for god only knew what reason.

“Sorry,” John said. “Got carried away, there…”

“You owe him whatever he won,” Sherlock said, apparently fully recovered. He looked at Greg. “Obviously you, no one else would have instigated it. And it must have been a wager, judging by the suddenness of the question—a dare, perhaps, but John would have likely needed more incentive than that—so a wager, then.”

Greg held up his hands. “I’m not denying that,” he said. He pulled out his wallet. “15, then, and 5 more for the speed at which you accomplished it, John, I’m impressed.“

Sherlock’s eyes darkened and he stood to leave again. 

“Keep it,” John interrupted. He glanced back at Sherlock.

“Are you—free then? We can… go back to my flat. Watch a—movie—It’s still early-“

“You don’t have to keep up the pretense John, really,” Sherlock said. “I hope you enjoy your drinks,” he added. “And your winnings. I wouldn’t mean to impose any—“ 

“I meant it,” John said. “I don’t want the money. Come to my place.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. “Please?” he managed.

“I—“

“Come on,” John said. “I’d like to— I’ll make it up to you. That was a shit thing to do…“ 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, after a moment. “It was.” 

He wrenched his hand free and turned and John blew out a deep breath, watching the tall, raggedy figure leave.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “And here—“

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. He sounded truly contrite. “I shouldn’t have made it quite so obvious, but I thought— 

“It was just awful of you. I’m ashamed of you,” Molly said. “Both of you,” she added, turning indignantly to John. “He doesn’t deserve—“

“Follow him,” Mike interrupted. 

“No.” John slumped back in his seat. “I fucked that one up properly, I did.”

“Go on,” Greg said. “I’ll make it 25,” he added, his eyes gleaming. Molly turned around and slapped his shoulder.

“No, you won’t,” she said. 

Greg eyed her uneasily. “No,” he agreed. “I won’t.”

John made a decision and stood. “You know what? I’ll be—well. I’ll see you all around, all right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Mike said and John left before he started to question just why Mike Stamford was so damned enthusiastic about the whole thing.

—-

Sherlock, to John’s intense relief, was still outside. A cigarette dangled from his right hand as he leaned casually against the building. No coat and God, it was frigid out here, what was the boy thinking—-

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, before John could speak. “It’s quite—I’m used to it, really. I know better than to let myself be toyed with.” 

“So why did you?” John asked.

“Why did I what?” Sherlock took a last drag before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping on it.

“Why did you kiss me? If you knew—“ 

Sherlock shrugged. “Experiment,” he said. Unconvincingly, John thought, or maybe that was just him being hopeful.

“Ah.” John raised a hand to his hair and ran his fingers through it. “So that girl,” he said.

Oof. Well done, Watson, he silently congratulated himself. That wasn’t a bit obvious. No, not at all…

“What girl?” Sherlock asked. 

Screw it. Already stuck my tongue in his mouth, flirting technique can go to hell at this point…

“The one you were—the one in that red dress,” John said. “She…You dating?”

“Irene?” Sherlock looked scandalized. “Hardly. Boys are not…Not her area. And girls aren’t mine, for that matter.”

“So, no girlfriend then?” John blundered on. “Or… boyfriend, for that matter?

“No,” Sherlock admitted and John felt something warm curl up under his heart.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good then.”

Sherlock turned to glare at him. “Why precisely does it matter to you?” 

“It doesn’t,” John protested. “Look, I’m just making conversation—“

Sherlock pulled a small blue pack out of his pocket. “Did you take the money?” he asked, drawing a cigarette neatly out with his teeth.

“No,” John said. “It didn’t—It didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to—I liked kissing you. Really.”

Christ, someone needed to shut up him up, this was rapidly approaching pathetic. 

“Pity,” Sherlock said. He fumbled in his pocket, finally drawing out a lighter. “We could have split it.”

John stared at him for a second, before turning his head up to the musty sky and grinning. “Sorry,” he said.

“Idiot.” Sherlock said. He rubbed his hands across his bare arms.

“No coat?” John said.

“Don’t need it,” Sherlock said. “It’s—“

“Awfully cold out here,” John said. “And my flat—It’s warm—“

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Sherlock said. He lit his cigarette and blew a disapproving puff in John’s direction. “You don’t know when to give up, John Watson.”

John shrugged. “I’ve heard that one before.” He hesitated and drew off his worn peacoat.

“Here,” he said. “Use mine.”

“No, I’m fine—“

“I’ll just be getting home,” John said, pushing it into Sherlock’s hands. “Take it, all right?” 

Sherlock nearly dropped the bundle. “You can’t just—how am I to get this back to you?” he demanded, as John turned away. “JOHN, your coat—“

“Keep it,” John called over his shoulder.

“I can’t just—“

John turned and walked backwards, his hands in his jean pockets. “You can.”

“No, I cannot, you’re being—-“

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” John said. “If you happen to be here too…” He shrugged and raised his hand in a mock salute. “Next time, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. But as John watched, he unfurled the bundle and draped it about his thin shoulders.

John turned about and began the trek home, grinning slightly to himself. 

It was cold, all right.

Freezing.

Worth it, really.


	2. Train Station Goodbye

“I won’t leave,” John had promised, and he’d lied, because here they were. In the packed underground, bodies pressing against them on every side, stale sweat choking the air, and the promise of goodbye—the most suffocating of all.

15 minutes, now.

_**Mind the gap** _

Infuriating.

_**Mind the gap** _

Another train rushed past and Sherlock understood, for the first time, how that distance could seem so vast as to be dangerous (foolish, of course it wasn’t dangerous, per say. It was barely the span of a hand between the white warning line and the train—-no, 29 cm exactly. Then again, a foot might get caught, torn off perhaps, so dangerous it was— And too, one might step off long before any train came, take that plunge, because those of a fatalistic bent could always find their ways…)

“Sherlock,” John said and the clipped impatience and unnecessarily loud pitch suggested that it wasn’t the first time Sherlock’s name had been fallen on deaf ears. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “Sorry.”

“You might pay attention for a bit, seeing as I’ll be away for a few years,” John said. “I’m sure whatever limb’s percolating in the fridge can wait for a couple minutes…”

“An eye,” Sherlock corrected. “Not a limb.” John’s teeth clenched and Sherlock hastened to explain. “No theft involved, Professor Hooper gave them specially to me. She thought I’d like to—examine them. Congenital aniridia… Relatively minor, but missing part of the iris—“

“I know,” John said. “Doctor… oh forget it.”

He shifted his bag from his shoulder to the floor and pursed his lips and oh, that had been the wrong thing to say.

_Fix it, Sherlock, or he’ll leave for forever. I’m surprised he’s stayed quite so long to begin with—-_

Strange, how that chastising voice in his mind always sounded so familiar.

_Goldfish never have the brains to know what’s good for them anyways…_

It didn’t matter, if he was good for John. Sherlock was selfish enough to keep him anyways and self-aware enough to realize how not good that was. And yet… John had crossed his arms and was staring up at him expectantly—looking for a sign of—what was it people did?

_Affection, you fool. Sentiment that you’re clearly not capable of._

Wrong. He could—-Sherlock slipped a hand under John’s chin, tilting his head up so that he could peer closely.

Eyes, wide eyes with wide irises… blue with a hint of gray, not quite Venetian blue…

“Gunmetal,” he said. No, where had that come from?

Oh. Obvious association, there, but probably not good.

John’s shoulder was stiffening under his touch and Sherlock was at a loss once more. He’d fucked up. Already and again. 

“I didn’t mean to—“ he tried.

John merely scowled.

“You smell like cigarettes,” he said. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s too-bony wrist and pushed it away. “You said you’d stopped.”

“I’ll remember it exactly,” Sherlock blurted. “I will, John. It's...Details.”

John stared up at him.

Freak, ponce, show-off. Selfish and self-destructive. Already, so just imagine the terror he’ll grow to be. And yet…you care so much, John Watson…

Sherlock grasped for the last thread of their conversation, eyes, oh yes, “The color. Of your irises. I’ll remember—And the way you look. When you’re angry, like this, they change—-John.”

Storm-colored now, though Sherlock had never understood that adjective before. What color was a storm anyways, how did one quantify that—But John’s eyes were the color of a storm, sure enough, the tension in them palpable.

Sherlock swallowed. “Not good?” he asked. It came out far more plaintive than he’d expected and something in John’s face cracked open.

“Oh Christ…” John dropped his bag and drew his partner close. Sherlock’s head dropped heavily on his shoulder and John carded a small, strong hand up through the dark curls.

“Now listen to me, Sherlock,” he said, his lips pressed to the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “I’ll be back, soon enough, and no one’s going to forget anything, you hear me?”

“The human mind forgets astonishingly quickly,” Sherlock mumbled into the thick wool of his jumper. “Retroactive interference… new emotional memories that result in a fading of old ones—“

“There’s no one else, you git,” John said. His arms tightened about Sherlock’s back. “You know that.” Hesitation. “Tell me you know that…”

Sherlock drew back, ran a hand through his hair. “Mary,” he suggested, after a moment of thought.“You dated her…”

“A year ago,” John replied. “God, you impossible… If anything, it’s you who’ll forget me, running about after some excitement. Pining’ll bore you, soon enough.”

“I wouldn’t—”

John dragged a finger under Sherlock’s eye and dampness streaked coolly across his skin. “Sherlock. Don’t,” he said.”Won’t do any good.” 

“Statistically speaking—-” Sherlock started, unable to help himself. “Statistically— one of us won’t be able to resist— but it certainly won’t be me, so therefore, it has to be you—”

"Sherlock, I might be an idiot, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how logic works, yeah?" John tugged him back down, so that he could kiss his forehead, and then the bow of his lips. “You don’t have to say it,” he whispered. “I won’t make you.”

He hadn’t been about to say anything—

_Idiot. So obvious, really. A chemical defect, Sherlock._

He couldn’t.

“You’ll write,” Sherlock said, instead.

“And you won’t ever write back,” John confirmed. He raised an eyebrow, a half-hearted smile at his lips. 

“Yeah, ‘course I’ll write.

“And this—-“

_**—- is the Piccadilly line service to Heathrow Terminals 1, 2, and 3—-** _

“You’d better go—“

“Yes, I’ll just—“ John reached for his bag, just as Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. Because of course now he wanted to say goodbye, but the sentiment still wouldn’t come.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, the words twisting about in his mouth. “No, I meant—“

“Nope. Wouldn’t dream of it,” John said.

He backed away slowly, stepped on the train, and Sherlock followed him forwards, one hand outstretched as if to keep the doors from closing. 

“I forgot,” he said. “John, I forgot…”

“And I love you too,” John said. It might have been meant to be a quip, a careless toss of words, perhaps, but it came out raw and unguarded and it surprised them both long enough for the doors to shut and Sherlock to stumble back, dazed.

“I’ll miss you,” he called after the retreating train. “I”ll—- quit. I promise. And write. And remember—”

_Lovely ideas, to be sure. But not likely, is it?_

“I will,” Sherlock said, aloud. A few people turned and Sherlock ignored them.

_He’s only been deployed for two years, he’ll be fine. And if he’s not—-Redbeard, Sherlock. You always knew what would happen._

Sherlock dashed an angry tear from his eye.

“You can just shut the fucking hell up.”

Now people really were staring and if he was attracting attention on the London Underground, of all places, then he must be making quite the scene.But Sherlock merely turned about and left, his fingers already sweeping the pockets of his raggedy jeans for his pack of cigarettes.

_You always were predictable, little brother._

Sherlock took one out and slipped it into his back pocket, before binning the rest without so much as pausing in his stride. 

_And you always were wrong about me, Mycroft._


	3. Handcuffed Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not thrilled about being handcuffed to Sherlock-- At least, not on his WEDDING day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've already read this one and are confused about chapter order-- the new drabble is actually chapter ONE. I did some rearranging, more for my satisfaction than anything else. Apologies if I confused anyone!

“What the hell have you done?”

John shoved his handcuffed wrist into Sherlock’s face and barked out the words like an order and, if he wasn’t imagining it, Sherlock flinched, just a little.

Captain Watson, John reflected, had always done by far the best job of managing the mad genius. But right now, he was just John Watson, with his shaking hand and tight, clenched smile. The John Watson too, who happened to be the short, be-jumper-ed flat mate of one Sherlock Holmes, and who followed him madly, blindly, into all sorts of absurd situations.

Including, apparently, the one where they ended up handcuffed together on his wedding day.

“It’s a simple problem, John, really—“

John waved a finger in Sherlock’s face and Sherlock blanched quite obviously this time. “If it’s so simple,” he said, through clenched teeth, “Why don’t you bloody open them?”

“Ah, that.” Sherlock coughed and attempted to cross his arms. The action dragged John forwards and he yanked back, so that Sherlock was forced to abort the motion. “I seem—“

“Yes…”

“To have lost the key.” He looked at John with a little, hopeful smile, as if begging him to see the humor in the situation. But John was in no mood to be amused.

“You—You just WOULD, Sherlock, of all the days—-“

“Well, it certainly wasn’t as if I meant to,” Sherlock said. “And I can’t simply spend the ceremony handcuffed to you either, it’ll look odd—“

“Odd!” John huffed. “Odd, he says, like being handcuffed to your best mate—“ 

“Don’t call me that,” Sherlock said sharply. John looked up to see him wearing a slightly pained expression.

“I’m not your ‘best mate’,” Sherlock continued. “I’m not—“

“I don’t understand—oh, never mind,” John said. “But this can’t—“ He raised their hands helplessly.

“I’m not your best mate,” Sherlock insisted, again. It was clear that absolutely nothing was happening about the handcuffs until they got that sorted.

“’Course you are,” John said. “You’re also a stubborn, arrogant sod, who’s too clever for—-“

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t see why you keep me around anyways, if I’m so hideously awful.”

John groaned. “You know I didn’t—-Why the hell did you have handcuffs anyways?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Stole them from Lestrade. And then Archie wanted to see how they worked and you seemed to be the logical choice.”

“Yeah, about that, what the hell was Archie doing back here anyways and…Hang on. Did you say logical?” John let out a short, incredulous bark of laughter. “Sherlock Holmes, I am getting married today, whether you like it or not, and if I have to drag you to the altar like a limp doll with me, don’t you think I won’t.” 

Sherlock looked away, dropping his eyes to floor. “If you like,” he said. John yanked at the chain connecting them once more and Sherlock stumbled forwards.

“No, no I don’t prefer it,” he hissed. He let go and Sherlock stayed where he was, blinking rapidly.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “As the situation seems to be—“

“You’ve got 30 minutes,” John informed him. “But I am not walking out there like—“ He gestured wildly at the heavy metal around their hands.

“Alright, alright, let me just think….” Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and bowed his head. His hands reached up to clench tightly in his hair—Or at least, the right one did. But John was damned if he was about to stand on his tiptoes so that Sherlock could look cool while he was rummaging about in that useless, confounded—-

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock said and John abruptly ended his mental tirade against the unfortunate mind palace.

“Yes?” he asked. Suspiciously, just in case.

“The KEY, John—“

“Well that would be bloody convenient now, wouldn’t it—“

“No, NO.” Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders, which wrenched his arm uncomfortably near his neck.

“It’s in—“ Sherlock paused, his eyes widening. “Oh,” he said, deflating. He slipped a hand down the side of his suit. “My pocket,” he finished. He darted a quick look at John from under his lashes. 

John stared at him for a long second—-before turning away and bursting into a fit of giggles. Some of the tension eked out of Sherlock’s face as he watched John bend over, gasping.

“So we’re still… on with the plan, then?” Sherlock asked, slipping his hand out of the metal cuff.

John stood and dashed at his eyes. “Was that ever a question?” he said. Sherlock reached over and began unlocking his wrist.

“Seeing as you apparently think I’m an arrogant, stubborn sod—“

“Who suits me right down to the ground,” John finished. He shook out his wrist and grimaced. “Well that’s going to be nasty, really—“

Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

“Oh Christ, are you STILL pouting?” John said.

“You called me your best mate,” Sherlock accused.

“Well, aren’t you?” John asked. He grabbed Sherlock’s left hand and massaged the wrist, keeping his gaze fixed his task. “’Course you are.”

“But—“ Sherlock started. “You’re marrying me.”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” John said. “Certainly the cleverest. And yes, you’re my best friend. But you’re also the love of my life and the only person I’ll ever want in this world.” John finally looked up and scowled at the bemused expression on Sherlock’s face. “Do you really, really not know that?”

“John,” Sherlock said. His voice was careful. “I did, believe, after all—“

“Christ, you didn’t know that.” John looked like he might just begin raging again.

“I extrapolated,” Sherlock said hastily.

“No, you didn’t. You just figured this out.”

“Perhaps, I…” Sherlock trailed off. "How about bees?" 

John released Sherlock’s hand and narrowed his eyes at his soon-to-be husband. "What about them? Listen, if you tell me there's a nest of fucking hornets in there or something, you--" 

“Hornets are not BEES John, do keep up. But that’s a matter for later.”

“Fine. I swear, if there are any homicidal insects of absolutely _any sort_ in there—“

“Much, much later,” Sherlock said. “Years and years and…” He trailed off contentedly and offered John an elbow. ‘So… shall we?”

John looped his arm through the offered limb and shook his head. “Yes, finally, after all this utter madness—“ 

“It was worth it,” Sherlock said. John’s head jerked up.

“Say that again,” he ordered.

“It was—“ Sherlock stopped. “Must I, really?”

“Yes,” John said. “Or I’m not walking one more step—“

“It was worth all of it,” Sherlock said (albeit mostly to John’s left foot). “Dying, living, fighting… coming back. All of it, it was worth it. For you, John Watson.” He glanced up briefly and then looked away. “Can we finish this now?’

John closed his mouth, aware he’d been gaping, and nodded firmly. “Better, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Before anything else manages to go wrong.”

“It’s our wedding day, John, what else could possibly go wrong?” Sherlock said, as they stepped forwards. “We simply have to make it to the altar, through the reception, and then—“

“And then,” John interrupted. “I am taking you home and finding a very good use for those fucking handcuffs.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I can think of a few,” he admitted. 

“I always did say you were brilliant.” John opened the door and slipped his arm free, so he could turn and offer Sherlock his palm instead. “Shall we, then? Finally?”

“Yes, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said, taking his hand.

“We shall.”


	4. I Will Find You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU! Come on now, it's a trope challenge.

Sherlock would never admit it, but there had been a time when the messy half-script across his wrist had meant the world to him.

He’d never understood, as a child, why he had the name of another etched into his skin, and, for the longest time, he hadn’t cared. The brilliant blue lettering had curled around his wrist from the day of his birth, as comforting and familiar a presence as any birthmark.

The day he’d learned to read, he’d marched home, fuming. “But my name’s William, Mummy,” he complained. He held out his arm as evidence. “They spelt it all wrong.” His mother laughed and Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock sulked for about an hour. His father had been the one to explain, ever so patiently, that the signature was not meant to be his own.

“You’ll find someone, one day, with that name,” he said. “And they’ll love you, so very much and you’ll love them. You’ll see.”

“Like a friend?” Sherlock asked. He gazed at his arm with renewed interest. “I want one of those.”

“Yes,” his father agreed. “Like a friend.”

Sherlock pouted. “And I only get one?”

His father grinned at him. “You won’t need anymore than that, once you meet them. This one—they’ll be a very special friend.”

“But I want them now,” Sherlock whined. “I don’t—I don’t have any friends.”

He never quite managed to delete the look that came over his father’s face, half-sad, half-hurt, a crumple in the corner of his mouth and something terribly like anger in his eyes.

“You’ll get him when it’s time,” was all he said. “I promise. You—find them, all right? Don’t let anyone tell you you shouldn’t, or that it’s not right.”

And Sherlock had nodded and then he’d forgotten all about it.

—-

He didn’t realize until much later the meaning of his father’s words. He was frightfully oblivious in those days. But in his fifth year, a small girl grabbed his wrist in the middle of class and shrieked, “But that’s a boy’s name.”

And that was how Sherlock learned that he was a freak.

—

It didn’t particularly bother him. He’d known he was different, wrong somehow, so knowing the reason why was as much of a relief as anything else.

He’d been fascinated by the possibilities, had spent nights examining the signature carefully in hopes of deducing what kind of man his soul mate was. Frustratingly little to be found and he knew now (as he had, in all honesty, known even then) that graphology was a quirky pseudoscience at the best of times… But he hadn’t been quite so rational, then. And he’d wanted, so very desperately, to believe.

Blunt to a fault, aggressive, yet caring, anger issues and loyalty, perhaps medical field, with that unsightly scrawl…

Later still (long after he’d convinced himself that it was a mistake, convinced himself that he needed no one, particularly not someone with a trite, over-used name and childishly messy handwriting), he’d stare at it in the filthy half-light of a squalid den, his eyes glazed, and his hand trembling as he stroked over the skin, again and again, and allowed himself, just for a moment, to hope that someone was coming for him.

Mycroft was the only one who ever did, once, and he’d looked down his long nose at Sherlock and then pried his left hand away from his wrist, where it had curled in the night.

“It’s not worth it, Sherlock,” he’d said, sighing. And Sherlock had huffed and faked anger and they’d both pretended, then and forever afterwards, that he was talking about the heroin.

—- 

By the time he’d come out of that fetid swamp hole, skeletal and shaking and fucking sober, he’d finally convinced himself that the name meant nothing. That ‘John’, whoever he was, was probably dead—perhaps he was one of the unfortunates whose soul mate had died at birth or perhaps his soul mate was the type of man who had never wanted his other half. There were those who chose to let the love of their life slip, when it was inconvenient to do otherwise. In particular—Those who decided the social stigma of a same-sex bond was not worth it or, worse, those that truly believed it was a mark of evil, etched forever on one’s skin.

‘Sherlock’, of course, was not a common name. John could have found him, if he wished. His father had registered both him and Mycroft in the official government records and if a match had ever been submitted, he was never told about it. Best, then, to forget about his match altogether, to devote his energies to something far less fickle than chance and superstition. 

And still, sometimes… Someone would say that name, frightfully common as it was and, for an instant, his heart would skip a beat and he’d look up. An instinctual response and yet he resented the brief moment of vulnerability and the inevitable bite of disappointment. And then he’d duck his head, resolute in his certainty that there was no possible way to check every John and then too, that there was every probability he’d already met his soul mate and let him go, because he hadn’t dared to ask.

—

 

“John Watson.” And Sherlock’s heart stammered its hopeless plea.

“Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” And John’s face didn’t change in the slightest and his erratic heartbeat stuttered to a halt, because surely no one who’d just met their soul mate could be so stoic.

Which was probably why he told John, later, that he didn’t have a soul name. And John’s face lit up a bit and his flirting escalated and that was how he knew for certain that this man was not his to have.

—— 

Oh, but John Watson was perfect.

He fit into Sherlock’s blunted corners and splintered cracks, complimented all of his flaws with ones of his own. Surely everyone saw it, the way Sherlock’s gaze drifted to him, an ‘if only’, but John never said anything. Not when he almost died near a glimmering pool, not later, when Sherlock curled to his side and he tensed, for a moment, but allowed it. Allowed the curly head to lie on his chest and catalogue his every breath.

They didn’t speak of it. Just as they didn’t speak of Molly, with the script behind her ear that had never been Sherlock’s name. Didn’t speak of Irene either, on whose wrist his spiky, illegible scrawl appeared so very quickly after her first resurrection from death.

“They never change, you know,” John said, sometime afterwards. “The soul names, can’t be changed, not once you have them. But they appear, often. Christ, even years later. ‘ And he nodded briefly at Sherlock. “’Course, you know that. Even if you still…Well, you can't, anyways. You'd hate it.”

"Hate what?"

"Love, 'course. Mess your little machine right up." John tapped the side of his head and Sherlock understood.

"Emotion," he said, carefully."And love especially. It is, in my experience, the exact opposite of reason."

"That's what I mean. You couldn't. Can't."

"That's not quite what I--"

John shook his head. "I saw how you treated her, Sherlock."

"You are right, I suppose. Love was a mistake, but it was hardly her fault, that she--"

But John had already turned to leave, his back still disapproving, and Sherlock had lost the thread of it somewhere. Ages ago, even, and perhaps there were sentiments that had passed their expiry date .

 _It was hardly her fault, that she was not you_

\------

 _I have kept your name from the moment of my birth and that can never be changed_

_But you are good, John, and I dare not ask of you that you keep me_

—-

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” 

And he thought that if there was any chance left that John was going to confess, he might then. But he never did and Sherlock didn’t say and two years later, Sherlock attended his wedding and kept his wrist carefully covered with a layer of foundation.

Because surely somewhere on John’s body was inscribed the truth of Mary. Just as surely as her shoulder read, in fresh, shiny new letters, “John”.

But he knew by then, that his soul mate was neither dead nor was he forgotten and that the truth was altogether a bit worse than either.

__

“Remember Redbeard?”

__

——- 

Mary knew. Sherlock had been so careful, but the woman was clever, so clever, and he had grown careless with his makeup, because John never observed and, if he did, he never pressed. But Mary’s arm shot out as he bent over to take her cup and she pushed back his sleeve and her lips pursed, because she knew.

She didn’t say a word, but when she shot him, he felt the cold fury of the knowledge in her eyes.

It wasn’t surgery.

It was murder.

And he was gone enough on John Watson that he’d let her get away with it, if only it would make John any less unhappy.

“You chose her John,” he pleaded. “She’s your soul mate, she’s what you’re attracted to…”

“She’s not my bloody soul mate,” John said and the table went crashing over and Mary’s eyes turned to ink. “She’s not, her name, Sherlock, her name isn’t even…”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. Stupid of him, really, but he wasn’t… he wasn’t thinking straight. 

“But that means whatever name you have, it must be her real name, John, don’t you see?”

John laughed, in that cruel, mirthless way of his, the one that terrified Sherlock more than any other emotion on his face.

“I doubt that,” John said. “I don’t—I don’t have a soul mate, Sherlock. Not any more. You should know, eh? You never did, did you?”

And in the silence that followed, something in Mary’s eyes splintered and Sherlock knew.

—

“You don’t have one, then?” he asked, a few nights later, the slightest curl of hope in his voice. If John didn’t have one, perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance that he wasn’t too late, that he might just—-

“I did,” John said. “I do.”

It had never been much of a hope anyway.

John reached for the whiskey bottle yet again and Sherlock didn’t stop him. “I dunno… I never met—Well. Not worth it anyways. Soul mates… don’t quite work, really.” John was slurring into drunkenness and Sherlock unclenched his palm.

“Don’t they?” he said. “Maybe not for everyone.”

“Yeah, well… you wouldn’t know, would you?” John said. “You haven’t got… Sherlock Holmes. Always special. Lonely genius. Couldn’t be any other way. ”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “I am… damaged. There’s a difference, John.”

“Better off,” John said, nodding sagely. “This soul mate business…cocks more up than it fixes, believe me.”

“Forgive her, then. For all you know, she is your soul mate.”

“She isn’t,” John said. His head dropped back on his chair and his eyes slid closed.

“Nope. Sher—she isn’t.”

—— 

He forgave her anyways. And it wasn’t quite a soul bond, but it was good enough. Half of one was better than none at all and Mary… Mary, with the familiar blue script down her shoulder, would take far better care of John than Sherlock ever had. 

He never wondered at the fact that John was apparently the soul mate of three people. Such things were rare, but not impossible. And John Watson… John Watson was improbable, at the very least.

—-

“Give my best to Mary… Tell her…” Sherlock paused and smiled, because Mary would understand, it would be their little joke… the joke of the universe, really, that neither of them were what John needed and yet, he was exactly perfect for them…

“Tell her… she’s safe now.”

I will not be there to threaten her place again. 

—

“I would die for him,” he told Mycroft, later, from the corner of a dark holding cell.

“The entire problem,” Mycroft said, slamming his brolly against the bars (and he had never seen such RAGE from Mycroft before, never).

“The entire problem, Sherlock, is that you are so very willing to die for John Watson and yet….you have never considered living for him.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft straightened. “You are not so very stupid, brother mine. And yet you have the extraordinary ability to be an absolute idiot when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“So you suggest I tell him?” Sherlock snorted. “What earthly good would it do anyone?”

“The names on our skin are merely a beginning,” Mycroft said. “Or have you ceased to believe in free will?”

“I don’t—“

“Give him the choice,” Mycroft said, tapping the tip of his brolly against the floor. “Or even death will not make him forgive you this time.”

—-

“John, I should say something….”

And perhaps Mycroft was right, but everything about John said the opposite, his closed stance and his fidgeting hand and his drooped head, all of it begged Sherlock not to say it.

And so he didn’t.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he said. “If you’re… looking for baby names.”

And John gaped and his hand went to over his right bicep and it was only then that Sherlock realized.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, John. I am sorry, I am… “

“An idiot,” John said. “Christ, you didn’t tell me—“

“I never knew…” And then, the frustration. “It’s not supposed… It’s supposed to be your name, the one you refer to yourself as, the one…” And John laughed, disbelief in his eyes, anger in his stance.

“Oh god, Sherlock—William—you bloody—-I’ve had this name since I was five,”

“I only began using Sherlock at 6,” Sherlock mused. “I was indeed William, before, and you are far older than me, so…”

“Five, Sherlock.”

“So at my birth.” Sherlock paused. “I’ve had it since birth.”

John shook his head. “Should’ve known,” he said. “But I didn’t… Christ, I couldn’t’ve. Thought I’d never find him, thought I might have missed my chance….”

“I would rather have known,” Sherlock said. “Even if the timing is not…

“You can’t still be leaving,” John said. “Not after… Christ that would take the cake, that would, you walking out on me after we finally—No. I’ll go with you. Not by yourself, you colossal—“

“You’re not coming,” Sherlock said. His hands went to John’s shoulders and held him there and he was conscious of Mary’s and Mycroft’s eyes on them, but if he had once chance to say it … “John, I… love you. I have always loved you. And if I knew you were in danger, I could not work, I could not forgive myself, you are certainly not coming—“

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for you,” John interrupted. His hand closed around Sherlock’s wrist, right over his own name. “And if I’m not coming… then hell, Sherlock, you are not fucking going.”

And Sherlock wasn’t anywhere near selfless enough to not press his lips bluntly against John’s and take what was his, even if it was only for a scrap of stolen time.

The game is never over…


End file.
